Today’s soundtrack: Oh, it’s a long, long while
Today at 3:02am: trying to decide if the carpal tunnel is really worth the payoff



So this Friday I’m doing a reading down at the Silk Road Teahouse in Chinatown. It’s a benefit for David Wong. In terms of the other performers it’s not exactly my crowd, everyone else seems kind of hip-hop-style.

I’ve been pretty nervous because I figured I better come up with something specifically for this event but I haven’t been getting any ideas. David Wong is in some serious shit so I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to show up and read one of my ordinary silly little stories.


Well late last night I finally got a story idea. I banged a couple paragraphs out lickety-split, trying to ride the wave, but all I got was a few good spurts of creative energy before it went away.

This morning as soon as I got out of bed I pulled up the file and began adding to it. Writer’s trick #1. You’re more in tune with your subconscious when you first wake up, you know that? Very close to the dream state, far closer than you would be around, say, lunchtime. Anyway I managed to squeeze out some strings of character dialogue but I still haven’t found the crux.

I need the crux, where is the crux. Sometimes it’s at the bottom of a cup of coffee, or between a pair of headphones, or lying on the sidewalk somewhere between Canal and 14th Street. But I couldn’t find it today.


Writer’s trick #2, distract yourself with other projects. Tried that in the afternoon and came back to the story afterwards. A few more lines of dialogue spilled out of me but it wasn’t enough and the crux was still nowhere to be found.


Writer’s trick #3, engage in arduous physical activity to stimulate endorphins et cetera. Went to Hapkido in the evening, sweated my ass off, came back. I got maybe three sentences.


Writer’s trick #4, go for a long walk through the city with headphones on when it’s dark outside. This usually does it for me.

So I went for my long walk, almost two hours but it didn’t work. In terms of connecting with my subconscious I wasn’t getting any reception. I think it might be ‘cause I’m not feeling so hot about a lot of other things right now so Worry is taking up too much of my RAM. I need more RAM.

I also needed a pineapple, so I walked up to my usual spot in the Village. I go up there all the time, and maybe two or three times a year they’ll be out of ripe pineapples. Well today was the day, so I walked out of there with nothing.

Then I headed over to Café De La Universite on University Place ‘cause it’s the only joint that serves decent decaf. I haven’t been there for a while. When I got there it was painted a different color inside and there was some counterwoman I didn’t recognize and she told me they didn’t have decaf. Can’t catch a break today.

So instead I sat on a fence on Washington Square Park East and had a cigarette and watched the occasional car pass. I was listening to Jackie Gleason’s “Blue Velvet” and I almost took a picture of the street to show you but then I realized, it was the music I was listening to that made the scene pretty. If I snapped that shot and put it up it wouldn’t have looked the same, not one bit.

Mostly I sat on the fence and felt bad about myself.


What do I have to feel bad about? Well, I can’t relate to people and I’m all alone in the world I’m filled with hatred and cookies and boo hoo hoo. Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo.

On top of which I’m barely making the rent, I’ve got no dough for my bi-yearly overseas jaunt and my life is turning into that song “Spread Your Wings” by Queen. Not a good month for my psyche. I think my soul actually left my body sometime last week. My soul is on vacation in Greece.


So a few months ago I got published in this short story anthology. Well I just read a review of it online. The reviewer called my story “contrived” and continually referred to me as “M. Rain Noe.”

If she thinks the story’s contrived, okay fine, but for fuck’s sake it’s “N. Rain Noe.” Jesus. She writes my name like five times, too, “M. Rain Noe” this and “M. Rain Noe” that. I’m just sitting there frowning at the screen thinking this won’t do, this won’t do.

I wonder if she says “N. Night Shyamalan.”

Contrived. Sigh.


I just got a postcard from my soul. There’s a picture of the island of Mykonos on one side and on the other it says “Wish you were here,” “Am having a great time” and “I may be staying here a little longer than I thought.”

Okay so I made the whole thing up. I’m a hack.


Writer’s trick #5, stay up late because when you get tired all sorts of weird doorways to your subconscious start opening up and sometimes it unlocks the writing.

So, I’m waiting.

And waiting.

I’ve got two versions of “September Song,” one by Django Reinhardt and one by Willie Nelson. I can’t decide which one I like better.

Oh, this is hopeless. I’m going to bed.